The lake is a blue scarf ironed by stillness, locust leaves burnt yellow, everywhere, softness in September air.
Her exquisite metaphor took my breath away as I envisioned the tranquil autumn scene. Potos next quotes Keats:
The first thing that strikes me on hearing a misfortune having befalled another is: Well it cannot be helped — he will have the pleasure of trying the resources of his spirit
Miles away, Andrea’s mother is undergoing cancer radiation treatment. The doctor “will aim one perfect arrow of light in the errant spot that would claim her if it had its way . . . ”
This poignant opening poem, “Morning of My 56th Birthday,” sets the stage for 25 other luminous and poignant ruminations about beauty, light, loss and grief. With her mother’s decline, each precious moment is amplified, bringing intense clarity and love.
Even as Andrea grieves, she celebrates life. Light and dark, joy and sorrow, flip sides of the same coin. She juxtaposes these two elements with extended metaphors of blue and gold: the blues of lake, sea, twilight, flowers, sadness; the golds of autumn, sunlight, Van Gogh, and radiant childhood memories.
“Grief, he told her, is the exhale of love (the ache of breathing) . . . “
I think, to a poet, the human community is like the community of birds to a bird, singing to each other. Love is one of the reasons we are singing to one another, love of language itself, love of sound, love of singing itself, and love of the other birds. (Sharon Olds)
Good Morning, Good Morning!
Breakfast is Served.
Welcome to Poetry Friday at Alphabet Soup!
Please help yourself to some freshly brewed Kona coffee and a warm blueberry scone. Since you’ll be dashing from blog to blog today to savor all the poetic goodness being served up in the blogosphere, you’ll need a magic footed coffee cup.
Honestly, what would writers do without their favorite high octane java and choice of sweet? It’s no small coincidence that so many bestsellers are written in coffee shops. Sip, chew, type. Ponder, swallow, savor. A bite of inspiration for the taking.
To the Coffee Shop by Andrea Potos
Praise to the early risers who unlock the doors at 4 a.m., create lemon blueberry crumble, orange raisin scones dunked headfirst in sugar, oatmeal cookies stuffed with cranberries and pecans. Praise to the splash and sizzle on the grill, smells rising from childhood’s deep cache, when you entered the kitchen rubbing your eyes and your father kissed you over the top of his Times, and your big sister looked ridiculous with her milk mustache. Your mother turned to greet you as if you alone were the sun while eggs burbled in her pan — praise to the succulent yellow yolks that were not yet broken.
Andrea: I am a devotee of coffee shops, and that’s often where I go to write every morning. (I love sweets, and I love all things baked!) As a child, my favorite breakfast was eggs sunny-side up and toast; there was always something cozy and consoling about such a meal, no matter what else was swirling around me.
As you can see, Andrea is my kind of poet! I thank her for allowing me to share her delicious poem with you today. Love “childhood’s deep cache.” *swoon*
Now, please leave your links with Mr. Linky, who’s already had three scones and five cups of coffee (please resist any temptation to actually eat Mr. Linky for breakfast as we need him to help with the Roundup). Don’t forget to enter your name with the title of the poem you’re sharing or book you’re reviewing in parentheses.
So glad you’re joining us — help yourself to another scone before you take off. Don’t worry, your magic coffee cup will follow you wherever you go and refill itself.